


The Answer to Everything

by cate-lynne (catelynne)



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:44:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catelynne/pseuds/cate-lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader is sick and John is out of town, leaving Sherlock to take care of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While helping Sherlock with a case, the reader finds herself stuck out in the rain for hours – cold, wet, and not happy at all with her boyfriend.

“ _(Y/N), do you see anything?_ ” Sherlock’s voice crackled from the ear piece that was jammed into my frozen ear. 

“No,” I growled.  Or attempted to, anyway.  I was shivering so hard that it was making it hard for me to speak.  Still, Sherlock was aware of my feelings toward him at that moment.

_“(Y/N), focus,_ ” he ordered.  “ _You can be angry with me later._ ”

For someone who had been a witness to my impressive anger and the sole victim of my revenge plots (which ranged from sabotaging experiments to hiding all the cigarettes to elaborate schemes that were days in the planning and usually ended with Sherlock covered in pudding), he didn’t sound nearly as frightened as he should.

“C-c-count on it, M-mister,” I mumbled.  I would have to come up with something good to get back at him for this.

It was a miserable night.  The cold had crept through the streets of London silently and unexpectedly like a thief, driving anyone with any _sense_ indoors.  It was enough to freeze a person half to death and I hadn’t been looking forward to spending hours outside a pub, waiting for Sherlock’s suspect to stumble out.  The stakeout was made that much worse when it started to rain.  Not a sprinkling or a drizzle, no.  It was a full on downpour, almost torrential.  So, three hours in and I was freezing, soaked through, and definitely plotting ways to make my boyfriend pay.

I was in the midst of an elaborate plan that involved Sherlock’s pillow, feathers, and a mouse (along with a completely necessary plan of escape) when I noticed a man practically fall out of the door.  It took a few minutes for me to make out his face in the rain but when I did, I realized that he was the man in the picture that Sherlock had shown me.  He was the suspect.  I nearly fell over in my haste to determine which direction he was walking.  Once I was sure, I pressed  frozen fingers to the earpiece to make sure it was positioned correctly and relayed what I had seen.

“H-he’s on the m-move, Sh-sherlock,” I chattered, hoping he could understand what I was trying to say.  “H-headed your way.”

He didn’t answer and I didn’t expect him to.  I had done my job.  I was free to be miserable, wrapped in my coat and standing in the alley between two restaurants.  I pulled my hood down lower to cover more of my face and just listened to the quiet feet coming through the earpiece.

Over the ear piece, I could hear Sherlock’s breathing pick up as he got more and more excited.  I wished I could see his face.  Sherlock had said many times, and not just to me, that solving crimes was his alternative to getting high.  The look on his face at that moment, as he prepared to catch another serial killer, would be beautiful.  Eyes bright, color in his usually pale face, slightly terrifying maniacal grin on his lips.  I had seen it so many times, I had committed it to memory.  Sliding down the rough brick wall behind me, I huddled under the hood of my coat and closed my eyes.  I picture his face in my mind’s eye, trying to ignore the ache I was feeling in my bones.  I had long since lost feeling in my hands and feet.  I was to the point where I was losing feeling everywhere.  A slow-crawling numbness was spreading throughout my body.

Distantly, through the earpiece, I heard Sherlock and Lestrade giving chase.  Over the crackly line and echoing through the streets of London, the sound of a gunshot ripped through the air.  If I hadn’t already been having so much trouble breathing, I would have gasped.  Vaguely, I felt fear go through me that Sherlock was hurt, but it was eclipsed by the numb feeling that was taking over.  Warning bells were going off in my head but I smothered them.  They were irritating.  I just wanted to sleep…

I didn’t how long I had been there, slowly drifting into sleep, before Sherlock came for me.  I could hear his footsteps rapidly approaching and tried to lift my head but suddenly found myself too tired to do even that. 

“Sh-sher…”

“(Y/N)?”  There was slight concern in his voice, the kind that he reserved for only John and me.  It usually made me smile, but I couldn’t even do that.  His concern changed to full out panic when I didn’t answer. “(Y/N)!”

He was flat out running now.  I felt the burning heat of his hands on my face and couldn’t help but let out a tiny noise of protest.  The heat disappeared for a moment as he turned away to shout something.  Apparently, he had been calling for Greg because the Detective Inspector trotted up a moment later, asking what the fuss was about.  Through barely open eyes, I saw his face pale when he saw me and the worry crease between his eyebrows deepened.  That was when I started to think that something was really wrong.  That was the Sherlock Look, the concerned expression that he usually only used when he was looking at, speaking to, or generally dealing with Sherlock.  I had just recognized this when Greg turned to run back out of sight.  A moment later, Sherlock was scooping me up and carrying me to a car, murmuring in my ear.  Glancing around one more time, I saw that Greg was driving, speeding back to Baker Street.  To home.


	2. The Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After walking around sneezing, coughing, and shivering for days, the reader finds herself getting more and more sick.

Three days later, I was back to helping Sherlock on cases.  I still had a bit of a cold, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.  I sneezed and coughed my way through meetings with clients until Sherlock sent me out of the room and at night, I curled away from him in bed, shivering so violently that it was hard for me to sleep.  I was miserable.  It didn’t feel like I was getting better at all.  It was the opposite, in fact.

One week after later, I woke from a fitful night of sleep only to discover I could barely move.  My muscles were weak and sore, from the constant shivering I supposed.  When I glanced at the bedside table to check the time, I saw that it was well past ten o’clock.  Why hadn’t Sherlock woken me up?

“You hardly slept at all last night,” his voice interrupted my reverie.  Had I said that out loud?  “I thought you probably needed the sleep.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.  I struggled to sit up.  Sherlock frowned, watching me from where he leaned against the doorframe.  I supposed he hadn’t really noticed how sick I had been getting.  He moved forward as if to help me but I waved him off.  “I’ve got it.”

I swung my legs off of the bed and stood on shaky legs.  Everything was fine until I tried to take a step.  My legs went out from under me and the floor rose up to meet me.  It would have left several lovely bruises had Sherlock not lunged forward to catch me.  He pulled me up so that I was cradled against him and I could feel the worry radiating from him.

“I…don’t got this.”

I felt the vibration in his chest as he chuckled tensely.  “I never would have guessed.”

He helped me back to the bed and carefully laid me down.  As soon as he did, I became aware of the shivers starting back up.  I felt them all the way to my bones.  Sherlock laid a hand against my forehead and frowned.  Then his cool fingers were tracing the inside of my wrist before pressing down lightly to take my pulse.  He pulled his hand away and disappeared into the hallway.  I let my eyelids slide shut for a minute.  I was so tired; I couldn’t have kept them open even if I wanted to.  When I opened them again, Sherlock was swiping a cool cloth against my forehead and talking to me, but I couldn’t understand a word.  I drifted to sleep, hoping I would actually be able to get some decent rest.  I distantly registered Sherlock saying something, an agitated timbre in his voice, but I was too far gone to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this one is so short. I'll make it up to you, I swear.


	3. The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon finding his girlfriend extremely sick and in need of care, Sherlock calls Doctor Watson to find out the best course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is from the point of view of Sherlock and John. I hit some major writer's block on this one, so I got some help. My co-author has never written fanfiction before, so any feedback would be welcome!

“John, she has begun sneezing in an aggressive manner.”

 John knew he shouldn’t have expected Sherlock to let him rest much once he got off the plane in Dublin, but he had hoped for more than five minutes of his holiday to himself before Sherlock needed him. He _had_ expected a call, but he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be quite so frantic this early in the morning. Now he sat in his hotel living room with the television on mute, wishing he could mute Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson is sick?”

“I have no idea if Mrs. Hudson is sick, John, she’s away! Which is why I’m calling you. (Y/N) is not well.” Sherlock’s voice did not rise with his temper. He just began to speak very fast, like he was attempting to give John verbal whiplash. “She’s suggested I call a doctor. Weren’t you a doctor, John?”

“I still am a doctor, Sherlock. You know I’m still a doctor.” John’s voice was stiff with annoyance.

“I told you, old and useless knowledge is tossed out the window. What should I do about (Y/N)?”

“Your mind palace has windows? I would have thought you’d view that as a waste of space.”

…

Sherlock was regretting calling John.  Bad enough that he should ask for help in taking care of (Y/N), but it seemed to him like John was being purposefully unhelpful.  Sherlock opened his mouth to inform John of just how useless he was being when there was a low moan from the bed.  Leaning over, Sherlock took in the rapidly deteriorating state of his girlfriend.  She was steadily getting worse and, try as he might to stay calm, Sherlock was starting to really worry.

…

“John.” Sherlock rarely pleaded, and when he did, his voice just became very quiet. If you didn’t know him you’d think he was trying not to be overheard. Unfortunately, John did know Sherlock. And so he decided he would (once again) help Sherlock with perfectly ordinary troubles that so often left him horribly confused.

“Alright.” John sighed.  “What are her symptoms?”

“She’s weak and cold and coughing and sneezing and achy and her eyes are swollen like that drowning victim we saw last week.”

“Probably…don’t say that to her face, Sherlock.”  John could only imagine how (Y/N) would react to that.

“It doesn’t even look like her face, John!”

“Ok, calm down. What have you tried?”

“Drug wise?”

“For (Y/N), Sherlock. What have you tried for (Y/N)?”  The usual exasperation that John felt when he was dealing with Sherlock was reaching its limit.

“Um, I fed her.”

John scrubbed his face with his free hand in frustration. “What did you feed her?”

“I ordered in Mexican because (Y/N) is decidedly not in any condition to be viewed by the general public.”

“Don’t say that to her face either. You fed your sick girlfriend Mexican food?”

“Was that incorrect?”

“Very. Feed her soup.”

“Soup?” Sherlock’s voice was dumbfounded. “Soup?”

…

Sherlock was very out of his depth here.  He had rarely suffered from any kind of illness, even in his childhood.  And in the year that he had known her, (Y/N) had never been sick either.  The few times John had gotten a cold, he had seemed to get over it within a few days.  What was Sherlock doing wrong?  And why on Earth was _soup_ alright for consumption, but tacos were not?

…

“Yes, soup.  And tea.” John’s patience was waning.

“Oh yes, (Y/N) is dying, but never fear for John Watson is here with soup and tea and sarcasm. Were you honestly a doctor or did you just run around and annoy everyone?”

John chose to ignore that.  “Keep her warm and maybe give her some cold medicine.”

“What kind?”

“Actually forget about the medicine, I don’t want you to accidently poison her.”  Sherlock started to protest but John spoke over him.  “And Sherlock, she’s not dying so calm down, all right? She’s just sick.”

“I know, John. I’m not a child.” There was a strange little pause. “I think she’s fallen asleep again.”

“Go find some soup and tea.”

“Tea is not the answer to everything, John.”

But John had already hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm suddenly on tumblr! You can find me at cate-lynne.tumblr.com


End file.
